


Scales of Desire

by Alistra (ALeaseInWonderland)



Category: Black Widow (Comics), Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Winter Soldier (Comics)
Genre: Amnesia, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Clint Barton Is a Good Bro, F/M, Laughter During Sex, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Quiet Sex, Recovered Memories, Rough Sex, Secret Relationship, Strangers to Lovers, lovers to strangers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:35:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24804004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ALeaseInWonderland/pseuds/Alistra
Summary: "I'm sure Steve will gladly answer all your questions.""How will he explain that I know the taste of your skin?"-When James is beginning to regain more of his memories, Natasha realises there are things she has been made to forget as well.
Relationships: Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes/Natasha Romanov
Comments: 11
Kudos: 129





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is dedicated to my editor, the incomparable [CloudAtlas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CloudAtlas) who really went above and beyond on this one, despite not being a fan of the pairing. You may keep the unexpected additional limb removed from the final scene as a token of my affection - never know when one might need an extra hand! :D
> 
> More specific warning in notes at the end of the chapter.

_On the scales of desire, your absence weighs more  
than someone else's presence_

(From: Absence makes the heart grow fondue by Jeffrey McDaniel)

The evening had wound down, with most of the occupants of the Avenger Tower's lounge sprawled around the low table enjoying each other's company. It had been a nice change of pace to assemble for beers rather than the impending end of the world, and Natasha had spent most of it with Clint's head in her lap after they'd commandeered one of the couches with best sightlines. It was undeniable how happy he was to share with his friends just how proud he was of his offspring but, while she loved them to pieces, Natasha admired Pepper when it came to just how many photos of his kids she could look at.

Across from them, Steve and Tony were arguing just for the fun of it, while Sam egged them on with a straight face. Thor had already retired with Jane after exchanging a few entirely unsubtle glances and claiming dual cases of immediate fatigue. By that time, Bruce had been caught microsleeping for the second time though and, as they were headed in the same general direction, Maria had called them a ride, Rhodey leaving right along with them.

It could have been such a relaxed evening, Natasha thought, if not for the almost physical weight of James Barnes's eyes on her. She didn't bother wondering whether she was imagining it.

He was sat at Steve's side, naturally, the two of them never more than an arm's length apart since his reluctant relocation to a spare room in what Tony loved to call The Captain America Wing at the tower. Most of the time he was like Steve's shadow, hanging back and watchful, friendly enough when spoken to but hardly ever offering anything himself. Tonight though, he'd hardly let her out his sight and Natasha was beginning to get annoyed.

While the conversation went on around them, she'd finally met his eyes and held his stare, a single eyebrow rising minutely in question.

For a split-second it seemed as if he would frown, then he apparently changed his mind, eyes darting pointedly and just as covertly to the door. She acquiesced with a tiny tilt of her chin, masking the movement by taking another sip of her drink.

James leaned in for an inaudible exchange with Steve, who instantly became worried before checking his watch, relaxing, and wishing James a good night. It had indeed become late and none of the others questioned him turning in, nor Natasha excusing herself for the bathroom minutes later.

She'd only just rounded the corner out of the others' line of sight when the view of him leaning against the opposite wall stopped her in her tracks.

Arms crossed in front of his chest, James all but glowered at her and she mirrored his stance, unintimidated, wordlessly challenging him to explain himself by raising her chin in his direction.

For a long moment he openly looked her over before pushing off the wall, slowly but intentionally stepping into her personal space.

Even if their recent encounters had been civil enough for Steve's benefit, Natasha could feel her hackles rising, standing her ground despite the memories resurfacing of the last time they'd been this close to each other, fighting each other tooth and nail.

"Why do I know you?" James was close enough for his breath to stir the ends of her hair as he bit out the words between clenched teeth.

Natasha's eyes narrowed, angling her body away from him with a cautious step back but, projecting nothing but boredom. "I'm wounded. You don't remember all the times you've failed to murder me?"

His frustration was palpable, barely controlled emotions making his fingers clench and unclench at his sides. Following her evasion with a slightly longer step that brought them even closer than before, he shook his head: "Not what I meant."

Natasha couldn't place the slight tremor in his voice as anything other than the obvious agitation. Steve had confirmed that his friend's memory from before his last reactivation as Winter Soldier was fragmented at best, some wipes more effective than others. While now and then familiar situations sparked the occasional recollection, apparently there was frustratingly little remaining of their time spent in the war as adults and only a little more when it came to their childhood. However, there had been no indication of him losing memories made since then, and Natasha began to wonder whether she'd have enough time to alert the others if she was attacked. Expecting only a night among friends, she mentally scolded herself for having grown careless enough to not even wear her bites.

"I am not your enemy," she said, voice pitched low and unthreatening. Another step back only made him follow, keeping the same amount of distance between them in this improvised hallway dance. Natasha was suddenly very aware of just how much taller he was, the closeness having her craning her neck to meet his stare, unpleasantly aware she'd been caught not only unarmed but, for once, even without elevated heels to at least level their sightlines.

His hair, while cleaner and less tangled these days, was still long enough to fall in his face as he searched her eyes.

"No, you're not," he replied, and it went only a little way to relieve her worries. "But you are _something_. Why do I know you?"

Natasha stood her ground, returning his stare just as evenly. They were sharing air at this point, his coming slightly ragged, at the knife's edge of fight or flight. His eyes darted over her face and she refused to give him anything but a carefully chosen mask of unthreatening blandness.

"I'm sure Steve will gladly answer all your questions," she said, unwilling to rehash all their painful encounters of how they'd done their best to end each other, the scar on her abdomen a vivid reminder of how close they'd come to succeeding.

The jagged laugh took her by surprise, more even than when he leaned in, slow enough for her to evade but too unexpected for her to actually do so. When he rested his forehead against hers, it was somehow more intimate than a kiss.

His eyes were closed, voice barely more than a whisper and something, _something_ intangible in it snagged at the very edge of her mind, something dangerously well-known about the desperation in his near-silent words.

"Will he? I've been remembering-" He hesitated, screwing his eyes shut and tilting his head as if trying to focus, a bitter note to his tone when he finished: "How will he explain that I know the taste of your skin?"

Natasha shivered, unable to explain the mixed emotions flooding her veins.

" _Impossible,_ " she breathed, only realising as the word left her lips that she'd fallen back into Russian.

James’ reaction was instantaneous, the wild glint in his eyes so unbearably close. He pulled back, closely scrutinizing her face before focusing on her mouth, licking his lips.

She drew away, their roundabout two-step having now landed her with her back to the wall.

" _Why do my teeth remember that spot just below your ear?_ " The faint trace of an accent in his softly-spoken Russian was somehow too familiar for comfort.

Natasha's hand flew up to her neck, seeing in his eyes that both of them had realised in the same instant that they had known without clarification which particular spot he meant.

" _Was it real?_ " he asked quietly.

" _No. It's impossible._ " She shook her head, only to add, slow with dreadful doubt: " _I- don't know._ "

He made a noise caught between relief and distress, more certain this time as he cupped her face with both hands. While Natasha knew a hundred violent ways to remove herself from his surprisingly gentle touch, she found herself screwing her eyes shut instead; the echo of a memory triggered by the sensation of metal digits on her skin making her tremble.

" _How..?_ " She wasn't even sure herself how the question was supposed to end when she sensed him close enough for the very ends of his hair to brush her cheek.

"Agent Romanoff, are you in need of assistance?"

The disembodied voice of JARVIS had them jumping apart, his query loud enough to be heard around the corner. Natasha heard Clint questioningly calling her name.

"Thank you, JARVIS, everything under control," she lied, surprising herself with the steadiness of her voice, eyes still locked with James’.

A phrase tugged at her memory, something she couldn't quite place, a sense of deja vu waiting to happen.

" _Too many eyes_ ," she said.

" _Midnight. The greenhouse,_ " he replied and for some reason it felt as well-known as a line from a play, maybe one she'd seen often enough to know by heart.

She inclined her head inquiringly. "There are no greenhouses here, James."

He shook his head at her English words, as if clearing his mind of some unwanted image.

"Yeah, I know," he replied, wiping a hand over his face like a man waking from a dream. When he looked at her again, his guarded expression was firmly back in place.

It was only a matter of time before Clint would come for her if she didn't reply, but Natasha couldn't resist throwing one last long look at him over her shoulder as she left.  
This time, James averted his eyes.

~*~

_Midnight. The greenhouse._

Trying to remember the meaning of the ominous greenhouse was like trying to recall details of a dream she'd had weeks ago; random fragments leaving her with the impression that she'd forgotten something vitally important, but nothing substantial as to what it might be. And yet, something about James had begun to ring too familiar to be dismissed.

Since the times that Natasha and Clint stayed over at the Tower were few, and the occasions on which they both did at the same time even fewer, they were put up in their usual small guest room. Tonight, she'd gladly volunteered for her turn on the couch, knowing that staring at the ceiling would be no more satisfying from a bed.

When she returned from the bathroom Clint was already under the covers, his cell phone's blue light throwing his face into distorted, purple-tinted contrast in the dark.

"You gonna tell me what that was about?" he asked without looking up, swiping at the screen slowly. When she only replied with a nonverbal question mark, he clarified: "Barnes staring at you all night as if you'd run over his puppy."

Of course Hawkeye would have noticed. Natasha mentally rolled her eyes at herself, plumping an already too-plump pillow and settling into her makeshift bed.

"Does he strike you as a dog owner? I'd assume he was more of a cat person."

"Really? That's what you're going with?" He waited for her to reply, but when no answer was forthcoming he put his phone away, plunging the room into darkness. She almost thought she'd gotten away with it when he added: "Be careful, Nat. Cap's buddy or not, that guy's mind is about as stable as a tumble dryer with a brick in it."

"You know I can take care of myself," she said evenly, but for once she wasn't too sure about that herself.

~*~

As predicted, sleep wouldn't come.

After an hour threatened to become two and even Clint's snoring had settled for the deeper rhythm of slow-wave sleep, she redressed in loose workout pants and a long-sleeved tee, slipped on her trainers and proceeded quietly to Steve's rooms. It hadn't been a problem for her to convince JARVIS to silently let her in, and she made a mental note to have a stern word with Steve some time about just how easy it had been to pass by his open bedroom door without waking him.

She slipped noiselessly into James's bedroom and shut the door behind her. A sliver of the city's eternal light pollution filtered in from a gap in the curtains, neatly bisecting a muscular figure underneath the sheets, the silver glint of James’ arm visible between his sleeve and pillow. He was asleep - Natasha could tell by his breathing - but asleep he couldn't answer any of her questions.

"What do you know about the greenhouse?" she asked loudly.

As expected, he shot up in bed, sheets tangling around his legs as he instinctively went into a defensive stance. She studied him from just inside the door, at what might have been considered a safe distance for those unused to dealing with enhanced people.

From the way his eyes scanned the dim room, she knew he was checking doors and corners, calculating items that could be used as makeshift weapons and mentally inventorying all actual weapons. Having been drilled mercilessly to the same kind of vigilant awakening, it was easy enough to recognize.

Finding no immediate danger, he relaxed fractionally, squinting in her direction.

" _Natalia_?"

Despite her best efforts, the fine hair on her arms stood up at the sound of his voice, gravelly and rough around the consonants in his half-awake state.

"I haven't been Natalia in a long time," she replied quietly in English, leaning further back in the shadows for fear of what her expression might give away. "Tell me about the greenhouse."

Taking his time, he yawned and scratched his jaw before pushing himself up the bed to sit cross-legged against the headboard. Sleep-tangled hair hid him from closer scrutiny but, even as he shook his head at her request, she could tell that his casual demeanour was all for show.

"Tell me about the greenhouse," she demanded.

No reply. He stayed silent, the shadows covering his face as impenetrable as the shadows covering hers.

" _Will you only answer when I speak Russian? Because I have time and can ask in a dozen languages. Tell me about the greenhouse,_ " she insisted, her already strained nerves wearing even thinner.

"What do you remember?" James sounded unnervingly calm.

"None of your business."

"In that case: _No._ "

Silence settled.

It was rare that emotional reactions got the better of her, but Natasha had been too shaken by the nagging suspicion that there was something tangible to his words to play coy. Her steps made no sound on the carpet as she crossed the short distance. Sitting at the very edge of the bed, she tucked her leg under herself, facing him while keeping a modest distance between them.

" _Please_ ," she implored quietly.

This close it was easier to make out his face; the way he tried to read her, the dimple in his chin becoming more prominent as his lips pursed in thought.

"You remembered something." Realisation dawned across his face.

Pretending was useless and he sucked in a sharp breath at her reluctant nod. His eyes shone in the dimness of the room. "What did you remember?" he asked, so hesitant as if he was afraid of the answer.

Unable to meet his eyes, she focused on her hands, clearing her throat nervously.

"There-" she broke off and searched for elusive strength on the ceiling instead, inordinately grateful that she'd instructed JARVIS to turn a blind eye to the room as long as she was in it. "There was a storage shed at the back of the largest greenhouse at the compound where we- where the Red Room trained us," she whispered, giving voice to those unreliable memories for the first time. She hardly recognized her voice for how hoarse and halting it was.

"What else?"

"Rows of shelves with all sorts of pots and garden supplies. In the back, bags upon bags of-" Her voice dwindled to nothing when he shifted forward slightly, intent on following her words but keeping himself carefully away from crowding her again.

"Go on...?"

"Bags of mulch and soil and-" Her teeth clacked together as if to keep in the words, the place coming painfully alive again in her mind for the first time after so many years.

" _It always smelled like soil and straw,_ " James supplied, voice just as shaky. " _The only place not under surveillance at night. The only place we could be... lovers._ "

Natasha laughed, bitter and without amusement. " _What, are you writing a sentimental autobiography? Fucking on mildewy, flea-infested straw made us 'lovers'?_ "

" _Would you prefer the alternative subheading Murdering My Way Back to You?_ " His grin was a slash of white in the night, sharp as a knife and brittle as glass, but his next question was pitched so soft, she knew she could have chosen to ignore it.  
" _Is that what you recalled? Fucking?_ "

Natasha didn't have an answer for another long moment, smoothing a stretch of the rumpled covers and watching the single beam of light cast inky shadows of her hand.

" _I don't know if I am remembering anything at all,_ " she sighed at long last. " _Maybe this is just one more sick mindfuck someone put in my head. I-_ " She squarely met his eyes for the first time. " _Please tell me what you think you know._ "

Slowly, telegraphing every move, James reached out. It felt like the sealing of an unspoken truce, the familiarity with which her slightly smaller palm fit against his; his index drawing idle patterns on the inside of her wrist eerie and comforting in equal parts.

" _I don't remember how it started,_ " he admitted sadly, fingers tightening around hers. " _I only remember that it was._ "

Natasha hesitated, hating the way she second-guessed every single unbidden emotion that surfaced when she was around him and consciously suppressing the urge to run.

"I haven't been given reason to question my memories for a long time now," she said after a while of just staring at their joined hands in the dark, afraid of what she might find in his face. "I'd almost convinced myself I'd forgotten what it was like."

A glance at James revealed the ghost of a smile, hollow and sad.

"What do you think you remember?" he asked, his voice pitched low as if afraid, whether of her answer or maybe something else, she couldn't say.

"I remember-" She hesitated, the old habit of keeping her secrets to herself hard to overcome even under the cover of night. "The first thing that came back to me was the smell. The greenhouse. Mulch and soil. That cheap soap we were given. Gunpowder and-" She swallowed hard, mouth suddenly dry at his intense expression imploring her to continue.

"...and?"

How could she put into words that ever since their brief encounter earlier she had, in fits and spurts, begun to recall the scent of their mingled sweat, born of the exertion of staying completely silent and aware of their surroundings as they found ways to be together? Too many secret meetings to be dismissed as anything less than a degree of affection neither of them was supposed to be able to feel?

Something must have shown on her face, because when he reached out for her she didn't hesitate to kick off her trainers and climb into his lap, knees bracketing his hips as they clung to each other tightly.

In a way it might have been easier to accept that they had never known each other. Easier to discover it to be one more of the Red Room's lies than to accept that James might be a good memory they had ripped from her.

Anything would have been easier to accept than the flood of memories that was triggered when she hid her face away in his hair and drowned in the scent of his sleep-warm skin. When his arms closed around her tightly, his exhale of pure relief against her collarbone left both of them shaking.

" _What else do you remember?_ " he murmured into the safety of her curls, the stubble on his jaw rasping against her throat.

" _The silence,_ " she whispered after a moment. " _Keeping an ear out at all times while we-_ " She broke off, thighs flexing involuntarily with the memory, tightening around him.

His choked-back gasp made goosebumps appear on her skin and she knew they were thinking of the same stolen moments; heated encounters in dark corners, only minimum, essential exposure of skin for clandestine unions, always ready to spring apart at a moment's notice, teeth aching with the desperate effort of stifling any sound.

Leaning back only enough to find his eyes again, she tucked a strand of hair behind his ear. In the shadows, he seemed less guarded and more familiar than before. Had it been haunted looks and reckless abandon that had first brought them together? A sense of having nothing to lose that had them find this unexpected thing between them? How it had begun was still a blank spot in both their memories it seemed, but fragments of other encounters kept slowly reappearing. A disconnected image, clear as day, of his eyes boring into hers as her hand covered his mouth. She started at the clear imprint of arousal that came with the idea, feeling the after-effect of it resonating directly with the proximity of their bodies.

Here, in a pocket of darkness that felt unconnected to the reality outside, her hand, usually so steady, shook with the implications of what might have been. Slowly she raised it towards his face, coiled like a spring and expecting - maybe hoping - to have him bat it away at any second.

He didn't.

Eyes wide, he allowed her to cover his mouth. Reality aligned perfectly with the image in her mind; the length of her fingers just beneath his nose, thumb gently anchored against the bristle underneath his chin. An echo at the back of her mind remembered craving kisses that were impossible, the ramifications if anyone found evidence of beard burn on her skin severe. On muscle memory alone, she leaned in to place a kiss on the back of her own hand, right above where his lips were soft against her palm.

With speed and strength no ordinary human could possess and a muffled noise against her hand, James tipped her backwards onto the bed and covered her with his body, his broad palm across her face a perfect mirror of her own. They stared at each other in enforced silence, the gesture strangely intimate and increasingly familiar, and when he shifted there was no denying how affected he was, the hard length of him pressed against her. On his back, her ankles crossed to pull him closer, realising only now that he'd lost the sheet between them, that he was wearing only a t-shirt and shorts to sleep while she was still fully dressed. Breathing hard, he rested his forehead against her own and she was glad to see him as overcome as she was. It felt strangely right to have his weight above her, would make more sense for her to feel trapped by it but, despite their earlier encounter upstairs, she felt protected.

When she felt his lips move beneath her palm, it took her a second to identify that he was smiling. He let go of her face, stroking along her jaw in a caress that she also knew better than could be rationally explained. His fingers curled gently in the hair at her temples. He kissed her palm when she released him.

" _I told you this would be where we ended up._ " He smiled, eyes darting down to her lips, clearly wanting to kiss her but unsure as to whether he was allowed. At her questioning look, he added: " _Do you recall my promise?_ "

There was _something_ , a sliver of a memory, and she knit her brow trying to grasp at it.

She remembered him standing behind her, lips close enough to brush the shell of her ear, whispering, " _One day, I promise-_ " like a broken record. The fragment repeated, but the end eluded her, no matter how much as she tried to hold on to it.

His touch kept awakening intimate knowledge of things she'd forgotten had existed in the first place. Like that there had never been enough time, not enough to get fully undressed should someone unexpectedly approach, so they'd made do. More than once she recalled pushing her trousers and panties down and out of the way, allowing him to hoist her against the shed's wall. Ankles effectively hobbled, she'd clung to his broad shoulders as the buckle of his hastily shoved-aside belt bit into the soft junction of her thigh with every sharp snap of his hips.

Natasha remembered the sharp pain as vividly as the exhilaration of having something, some _one_ of her own, apart from what the Red Room deigned to give her. They'd covered each other's mouths with their hands, chest to chest and forehead to forehead as they'd fucked in silent desperation, ignoring the sword of Damocles hanging above their heads. After, as they were erasing all traces of what they had done, he'd always made her the same promise, so close that he was kissing her ear with every syllable, a secret that promised the most extravagant of luxuries: A future.

Natasha found herself smiling, pulling him close to whisper into the hidden darkness of his hair like he had done so many years before. " _One day, I promise we'll have a bed of our own, and I'll make you scream to make up for every silence._ "

Feeling him sag against her in relief at last convinced her it was indeed a shared memory and not fabrication.

~*~

Even with memories slowly returning, their recollection of previous encounters was still spotty at best. For the better half of the night they lay closely wrapped around each other, trying to piece together their past with hushed whispers and only tentative caresses. It was too strange, Natasha thought, to find you had a joint past neither one of them could fully recall; logic struggling to align the two narratives of _Secret Lovers_ with _Barely Acquaintances Who Have Occasionally Attempted to Brutally Murder Each Other_. While it was undeniable that whatever dormant attraction that had first brought them together was still there, it was difficult to be the first to admit to the extent of it. Neither of them said it in so many words, but it was clear that they would not be able to seamlessly go back to either version of what they had been to each other. As soon as morning broke, they would be faced with explaining a connection to the outside world they hadn't even been able to fully define for themselves.

At some point she'd joined him under the sheets and, while she'd taken off her workout pants for comfort, it had stayed entirely innocent, both of them falling into a peaceful quiet, each lost to their own thoughts. There was something incredibly soothing about his close proximity, a novel concept in itself and if it hadn't been for the incessant soft patterns James's fingers were tracing onto her back, Natasha might have thought he had fallen back asleep.  
Lying on their sides with her face tucked under his chin, she took her time to learn the lines of his right arm, reading his scars like embossed printing, palm following his forearm to the elbow and fingertips delving up and under the hem of his short shirtsleeve, causing him to twitch involuntarily.

"Ticklish?" She smiled into his neck, inexplicably pleased to make just one childishly harmless discovery on this night. She repeated the motion even closer to where his arm met his shoulder, laughing softly as it made him jump.

"No," he said, smile evident in his voice, but he pressed his arm closer to his side to bar her access.

Natasha let her hand travel further up over his shoulder and down his back, following the curve of his shoulder blade and down the dip of his spine with just a hint of fingernails over cotton. By the time she'd reached the small strip of skin peeking out over the waistband of his shorts, he'd gone completely still, and when she dragged her nails back up to trace the ribs underneath his shirt, there was no denying that he shuddered.

"Not even a little bit?" she teased, intentionally tickling now. It didn't come exactly as a surprise when he reflexively gripped her teasing hand, but their burgeoning amusement died as quickly as it had flared when their eyes met, instant realization that this - _this_ , far more than any tender cuddles - was something they both knew.

James's fingers flexed before settling more firmly around her wrist, searching her expression as he rolled them, pinning her firmly to the mattress. She rose up to meet him without hesitation, entangling their bare legs. Her free hand cupped his jaw, slipping into his hair and dragging him back to bare his throat. She nipped along his jaw, enjoying the freedom of gasping out loud when he bent down to bite at the swell of her breast through her shirt.

At the sound he grinned up at her with something like boyish pride, eyes glinting in the dimness of the room and making her stomach flutter with an undeniable twinge of want.

Using his distraction she freed her hand and, with an expertly executed twist of her legs, flipped them. His increasing arousal was evident as she ground down and she relished the short, punched-out breath he gave her in response, laughing down at him. Driven by urgency rather than finesse, she made quick work of her shirt and bra, flinging them somewhere into the shadows beyond the foot of the bed.

James gripped her hips, pushing up firmly against her, hot and hard through the thin layers of their underwear before rising to meet her. The scratch of stubble against her sternum made goosebumps appear on her skin, nipples tightening to firm peaks. Before she knew it was happening, he tipped her back again, trapping her legs with his body. He placed shallow nips all over her chest, biting at the softness of her breasts but avoiding their tips for the moment, instead sucking purpling bruises into her skin that had her squirming against his hold. It was a strange kind of thrill to know he was visibly marking her, how much he was revelling in the fact that he was allowed to do so and how much she strained against him for more. Wetness began to cling to Natasha's thighs, the soaked cotton of her panties sticky and rough.

By the time he finally focused his attention on licking long soft stripes over the hard tip of her breast, she was whining almost desperately.

Strong hands pushed her knees apart as James trailed his tongue from the dip in her throat to that certain spot on her neck, just below her ear, his breath harsh against saliva-slicked skin. She ground against him, nails raking over the hard plains of his back, crying out when his teeth began to graze her skin in an unbearable tease. Nestled snugly between her thighs, his hips began moving insistently but without hurry against her.

With a bite just barely on the safe side of too hard, his teeth found the soft flesh of her shoulder, worrying her skin in a way that would surely be visible in the morning. Natasha lost all ability to speak, the sensation apparently directly wired to her core, insides clenching around a frustrating amount of nothing. Desperately, she angled her hips for his length to slide along her more fully, causing sparks to run under her skin.

Impatiently she tugged at his shirt, the need to finally feel his skin against her own overwhelming, and she let out a breathless laugh as in their haste James somehow got stuck inside the fabric.

He knelt up to rip it off, the crack of breaking seams loud in the room, and for the first time ever, she got a good look at the broad expanse of his chest: The gnarled edges where metal fused to skin, the thin line of hair drawing the eye down towards the waistband of his boxers. She licked her lips at the sight of the unmistakable stain where her own transferred wetness had darkened the light grey fabric.

Quick as a thought, she planted the soles of both feet against his breastbone and pushed him backwards, causing him to fall into the pillows with a surprised exhale. Before he had time to catch his breath she discarded her sodden underwear, dragging his own down to his knees as well before climbing back into his lap, hands splayed across his chest as she rubbed herself against him. He reached out to tug her close, using the momentum to roll them yet again, laughing into an artless kiss, neither of them fully aware that this messy press of hungry lips was their first after all these years of separation.

His head on her shoulder, damp breath against her chest he moved against her in slow circular movements that drove her insane, so good but not enough, not enough. Impatience got the better of her and Natasha, never one for begging, pushed up against James' chest, aiming to roll them again.

What she hadn't counted on was the width of his bed or, more accurately, lack thereof.

They rolled clean off the side, landing in a less-than-elegant tangle of limbs and sheets.

A second of stunned silence passed as they lay on their backs next to each other, breathing hard and finding their bearings.

Natasha turned onto her belly, groaning a laugh into the carpet. But, before she could voice thoughts on inherent gracefulness of dancers, James draped himself across her back, aligning his hardness with her backside as his arm curved around her to rest his hand at her throat.

Her pulse ratcheted up a notch.

James pulled her head back against his shoulder, making her back arch and fully exposing her neck. The sensation of surrendering herself to him made her head spin. She'd never enjoyed ceding control and yet, in this moment, with the broadness of his hand covering her throat, all she did was whimper, rubbing herself against him. It was the closest thing to begging she'd allow herself.

As if reading her mind, he pulled her harder against his chest, thumb and middle finger cradling the hinge of her jaw gently but still forcing her onto her elbows. Coherent thought was getting increasingly hard to come by, the softness of his kisses against her hair and the side of her face a sweet counterpoint to the strength of his grip. It made her want to weep, or perhaps laugh, with happiness. Possibly both at the same time.

"You know," James ground out, clearly no more in control of himself than she was, "as much as I'd love to keep my promise and make you scream yourself hoarse," she felt him grin against her temple, the image wringing another moan from her lips, as he punctuated every other word with a slide of his cock against her backside, "Our friend Steve is just behind that wall there and I'd rather not have him heroically barging in, thinking someone needs saving. So, as much as things change-" his lips pressed softly to her cheek, tone even gentler as he slipped his hand up to cover her mouth "-the more they stay the same, I guess."

Natasha was sure she would spontaneously combust if she didn't get to come soon. When he drew back at her teasing lick across his palm, she was about to complain but the sound broke on a gasp. James had used her distraction well, insistent fingers parting her slick folds, lining up his cock and, without preamble, finally pushing as far into her as the position allowed.

Damp, his fingers slightly caught on her skin on their return, trailing the scent of her wetness all the way up her body. Hand once more covering her mouth, he pulled her back flush with his chest, perspiration beginning to bead between them. Getting a knee beneath her allowed her to lean back into his thrusts, the sting of rug burn on her knees just adding to the overall sensations wrung from her body.

Anticipation and his considerable upper body strength more than made up for any lacking leverage, his bitten-off curses hot on her skin when she clenched around him. With both of them fighting to stay silent, the only sound in the room were suppressed gasps and the slick slide of their bodies, new and familiar at the same time.

Natasha reached up to find the back of his head, closing her eyes as he craned her neck and brought her face to rest beside his.

Beside her ear, James suddenly laughed breathlessly with the sheer joy of it.

Despite the similarities, there was not even a hint of the pervasive sense of angry desperation that had shaped their previous encounters, and much sooner than expected, she found herself nearing the precipice.

She wasn't alone in this.

James gritted his teeth against her shoulder, breath going like bellows as he lost all pretence of rhythm. Mindlessly he sought her out, the tight press of his embrace pushing her over the edge into a blinding climax that had her muscles locking and drawing him in. Still riding the wave of aftershocks, it wasn't long before she felt him follow.

Natasha kissed his palm when he released her, sinking to the floor utterly spent and tingling down to the last of her cells. Taking care not to crush her beneath him, James collapsed next to her. Pressing a soft kiss to her shoulder blade he drew her close, a possessive arm across her waist as he caught his breath.

For a long moment, the sound of their breathing was the only noise in the room.

"You okay?" James asked at long last, fingers gently combing sweaty strands of hair back from her face.

Natasha sighed contentedly, not even attempting to hide her happiness. "If you think this is what just 'okay' looks like,” she said, “I am both excited and terrified of what you'd do to make me feel 'good'." She smiled and leaned up for a kiss, wincing as the movement resulted in a delicious multitude of small aches and twinges.

James met her halfway, and she was gratified to see him wince just as much.

"I live for the challenge," he replied, grinning as she shut him up with a kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These guys are a little rough with each other in an enthusiastically consenting way, and there is no damage apart from the circumstantial scratch or bruise. Seriously, their canon on-screen interaction is a million times rougher than this little fic. 
> 
> If you are sensitive to the topic, there are elements that may trigger for breath play, even though breathing is at no point impaired or even intentionally restricted. Just mentioning to make sure everybody has a good time.
> 
> It should go without saying that unless you, too, are a variety of serum'ed-up super soldiers, practising safe sex is probably a better idea.


	2. Epilogue

STRIKE Team Delta had lived in each other's pockets for years, been put up together in countless hotel rooms, safe houses, and, on one memorable occasion, an igloo. Considering his concerns before she had snuck out of their room the night before, it didn't come as much of a surprise to Natasha to find Clint waiting for her as she finished her shower the next morning.

"Let me guess: I should see the other guy?" he asked from his perch against the sink, the twitch of the trigger finger against his bicep betraying his concern.

Natasha stepped past him to retrieve her towel and wrapped it tightly around her torso. 

In the mirror, she saw a line of love bites trailing from her neck to the swell of her breast, disappearing under the soft fabric only to reappear as a red blush of rug burn on her legs.

"If you did see the other guy, you'd be an instant competitor for bruised knees," Natasha said, barely suppressing a smirk as she began to untangle her hair. "Two words: Adonis belt."

"Fuck, don't tell me that," Clint groaned, squirming. 

Natasha just laughed at him as she connected the hairdryer.

"Seriously, Tash, do you know what you're doing?" Their eyes met in the mirror. "I mean, can't blame you for taste 'cause we both know I've made worse calls for less pretty eyes."

"It's-" Unable to fit all of the previous night's revelations into a single coherent sentence, she broke off and tried again: "There's been some rather unlikely developments."

"More unlikely than me playing darts against the actual God of thunder? Because that's a pretty standard Friday night for us these days." Though he was smiling as he said it, the hand on her shoulder was reassuring: "Try me."

~*~

When Clint and Natasha arrived upstairs in Stark's penthouse a little while later, Steve was just returning to the table with a stack of pancakes, an apron designed for a much smaller cook slung around his waist. 

"Hi guys, good morning!" Pepper greeted them enthusiastically. It seemed she was very happy for them to interrupt the monologue Tony had been inflicting upon them; from the few words Natasha had caught, something about space travel - or possibly Futurama. 

James lifted his eyes from his own plate just long enough to exchange a glance with Natasha which did strange things to her insides. So, while Steve was distracted by explaining his favourite pancake recipe to Pepper and Clint, she slid into his vacant seat next to James. Underneath the glass table, their knees brushed for the briefest of moments and Natasha felt a giddy ten years younger when she caught him struggling not to smile. She leaned briefly into his personal space to steal a strawberry from his plate, the almost-incidental tilt of her head sure to draw his eyes to her bruised neck. 

His sharp intake of breath was music to her ears. 

Tony, put out by having to cede the center of attention to Steve's unexpected proficiency at making breakfast food, glanced over. 

"Hold on," he said in a tone of voice that drew everybody's attention, "am I seeing things, or has a new alliance formed within the Eastern Bloc?" 

James caught Natasha's eye. The night before, they hadn't put into words how any of this would play out as soon as the rest of the team found out about them. At this moment though, they knew that they were in agreement. He offered her the berry he'd just speared on his fork and his hesitant smile grew to a full-blown smirk when she delicately ate it.

Across from them, Tony gasped. 

Natasha reached out and pointedly placed their joined hands on the table between them.

"You have one minute of immunity to make all the clever jokes you can think of, Tony. After that, anything you say will have consequences." The smile she bestowed upon him was more than just mildly terrifying. 

From the corner of her eye she saw that James' grin also showed a little too much teeth.

Tony, generally so quick on the uptake, was stunned speechless. He looked for emotional support around the room. On Natasha's other side, Clint appeared fully focused on his breakfast, while Steve was standing frozen as he clutched his apron, exchanging matching looks of romantic rapture with Pepper. 

"Go on..." Natasha raised a challenging eyebrow.

"I..." Tony's brows drew together. 

"Performance issues under pressure?" Clint asked with mock concern. "Don't worry, I hear it happens to the best of men."

"Very funny," Tony shot back, taking off his glasses and squinting at the freshly minted couple, tapping the temple stem against his lips. 

"Tick-tock." For all his usual quietness, it was impossible to miss just how much James enjoyed Tony's predicament.

"More than comrades!" Tony blurted, about a second before Natasha was about to call time. "Romantic Communists - romcom for short."

"Really? That's all you've got?" Even Pepper seemed disappointed. 

"Guys!" Tony sounded hurt, "Give me a break! I've only been awake an hour! This is only my third - fourth! - cup of coffee. Only dull people are brilliant at breakfast." 

Steve's face lit up. "Wilde! I got that reference!" He searched the others' faces for assurance but finding only blank stares, quietly sat down.

"Team WinterWidow?" Tony suggested, but an expertly thrown ball of wadded up napkin bounced off his head and landed in his mostly full coffee cup. "Come on!" he exclaimed. 

"Your minute was already up," Natasha said, calmly accepting a speared blueberry while Clint, conspicuously napkinless, helped himself to more pancakes.


End file.
